A Midwinter Night’s Dream

Each year, our old university friends meet to catch up with one another and also to commemorate our friends who died young – Malcolm, Steve and Hugh.

This year, we struggled to reach a consensus. 

Proposals included:

A starling murmuration in Brighton – too far to travel for some,

Hieroglyphics at the BM – out of bounds to those of us who disapprove of oil company BP greenwashing themselves by sponsoring exhibitions.

Cezanne at the Tate Modern – popular, but already seen by some.

Avatar II at Leicester Square – other audience members seem not to like it when we chat.

Magdalena Abakanowicz – Tate Modern -  a major artist of the 20^th century (and beyond) whom we all should have heard of, but never had.

 

In the end, we split between Cezanne, Hieroglyphics and Abakanowicz.

Although we meet in midwinter, it often feels like a Midsummer Night ‘s Dream, with people at cross purposes, popping up in odd corners of galleries and narrowly missing one another.  A bunch of us were at the Tate when somebody spotted the contingent from the BM arriving just outside.  Several people rushed out to meet them, but since it was nearly closing time, were not allowed back in.  Meanwhile another group of us waited fruitlessly in the Turbine Hall beneath a massive arrangement of hanging white fabric, lace and nets said to represent the knot language of South American indigenous peoples.

However, finally we regrouped fully for dinner.  And reassuringly, we reenacted the ritual of many years when, as usual, despite some of us having impressive credentials in mathematics, we were unable to match our payments to the bill. 

Photo shows Annabel, Stephen and an Abakan (one of the monumental textile sculptures of Magdalena Abakanowicz).

University Reunion

As we drove up the A1 for the reunion, I said to Nigel,

“I can’t believe that all that time, next to our hall of residence, there was that great big orchard and we never scrumped the apples.”

“I suppose we were too busy with our friends.  Well, the apples should be ripe now.  And there are carrier bags in the boot.”

“We’ll get some after the reunion.”

We had a companionable dinner with old friends.  The next morning we attended chapel and then over breakfast, Rosie suggested we collect the key and climb the stairs to the tower. 

I have thirty-three year old photos of a whole gang of us standing up there in front of the low parapet, arms round each other, our hair blowing in the strong wind. But nowadays only four of us were allowed up at a time and a metal bannister stopped us from accidentally toppling over the edge.

When we looked out over the view, there were more changes.  Beneath us our redbrick college still glowed and its grounds stretched out green.  But beyond, in nearly every direction, new buildings were going up, including a whole new village called Eddington.  I felt like a creature from a bygone era.

Afterwards, amid embraces and farewells, we went back to the car park where there had once been a sheep field, and drove away.

“Darn it,” I said, “I forgot to pick any apples.”

“Well.  Clearly then, some things never change.”

Postscript:

I reconnected with Andrea Skevington who also has a blog. Her amazing poem about spiders has resonated with me in the days since.  You can find it here:

https://andreaskevington.com/2017/09/21/spiders/

Then

Now - photo by Rosie

Now - Photo by Rosie